<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>No Map Without Water by akaVertigo</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27717515">No Map Without Water</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/akaVertigo/pseuds/akaVertigo'>akaVertigo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Tempest in a Teacup [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Avatar: The Last Airbender</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 16:09:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,160</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27717515</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/akaVertigo/pseuds/akaVertigo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Two people strive to each find their own way, divided and connected by the same purpose: following the Avatar. </p><p>(The criminally overdue sequel to <i>Tempest in a Teacup</i>.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Katara/Zuko (Avatar)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Tempest in a Teacup [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2027315</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>160</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>342</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue: +checkpoint+</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Where are you?</em>
</p><p>There was a game they used to play together, with maps. Hoards of maps would be stretched across the floor, transforming a single room into the world's reflection. ("The world at our feet," she used to laugh; he never did.) Carefully, they'd arrange each piece of territory within clear sight, smoothing ragged edges flat, and opening windows to fill the room with good light. If the hour was late and the sky dark, they would light the lamps instead; their glow would cast vivid shadows over the painted kingdoms, deepening the valleys and stretching the hills.</p><p>Then, they'd begin.</p><p>Where am I, one would ask. The other would answer, you are by the sea. And she would smile and agree, or he would smirk and refute.</p><p>Where are you going, one would ask next. The other would answer, I am sailing past the islands and can see the red cliffs guarding a kingdom; can I see you? But she would say, no, you are too far to the right of me. Or he would say, yes, you are very close to the left of me.</p><p>It was a pastime that grew from simple to elaborate, and then continued doing so with every session. In the beginning, she created it to be a study aid and break his monotony. In return, he gave to it all he knew and helped lessen the difference between their educations. (She was younger and foreign, but quick; it would've turned competitive eventually if not the pride they took in being each other's tutor.) Again and again, they raced and hid amongst the outlines of nations neither had ever seen, hop-scotching over Earth borders and Fire domains, one keenly searching for the other. He had a talent for tracking; she had a skill at misleading.</p><p>It used to be their favorite game.</p><p>
  <em>Where is he?</em>
</p><p>There was a ritual they used to have between them, on the ship. Come evening, when all the lamps were lit and many lay asleep (though there were many, too, awake) she'd kneel to sit beside him. A map was spread on the table, its edges held down by a compass or an ink stone, and the talking would start. Unlike the daylight debates, which were a meld of orders, directions, and facts-to-be, their evening conversations held the meter and flow of stories unfinished. Legends met historical records, peasant folklore clashed with royal accounts, and the imagination of one mind challenged the judgment of another.</p><p>To the west, she would say, where some villagers still believe each wind has a name, and can be bribed into kindness with incense and song. We'll ask who taught them this and why they remember it. (But he didn't trust histories kept beneath the straw mat of a hut.)</p><p>To the east, he would say, where the first campaigns entered the hills and conquered the land. Military scribes wrote of what their leaders saw and whom they fought; in their descriptions of the enemy, we'll look for clues to understand a dead culture's travels. (But she didn't trust descriptions forged according to soldiers' orders.)</p><p>They argued and agreed, analyzed and estimated, listened and talked, and talked, and talked. For every opinion she offered, he had a fault to discover. For every verdict he gave, she had an alternative to suggest. The shadows of their hands overlapped on paper, darkening the colored ink, and sometimes laughter rang against the iron walls.</p><p>It used to be their favorite time of the day.</p><p>Somewhere in the air, there is a girl.</p><p>The map is a light, almost unnoticeable, weight in Katara's lap; she uses both hands to keep it open and flat, ignoring the wind's attempts to steal it. Having no ready marker available, she uses eyes and memory to measure how far they've come. Sokka peers over her shoulder, while Aang twists around to stare at her expectantly.</p><p>"We've got a long way to go," she tells them.</p><p>Somewhere on the sea, there is a boy.</p><p>The map is dry and smooth under Zuko's fingertips; he traces the freshly made markings on its surface, looking for the pattern of their arrangement. Once he finds it, as find it he must and will, he'll have the means to understand how to come closer to what he seeks. Uncle Iroh tilts his head in wait for a decision, while the crew readies for his command.</p><p>"We've got a long way to go," he tells them.</p><p>
  <em>My friend, where are we now...</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This prologue was originally posted and abandoned in 2006. It was reposted as an "extra" on AO3 in 2014. Now there's barely a month left of 2020...and here we are.</p><p><a href="https://www.deviantart.com/irrel/art/78-Where-Zutara-32796870">Art for this chapter</a> was created by the incomparable Irrel as part of the 2006 Zutara week. Because she's kind of amazing like that.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. +rhyme and reasons+</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I (still) aten't dead.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><i>I want to stay</i>, she’d said.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>The back of Zuko's head is still tender when their ship limps into port. They need repairs and supplies, and for everyone to keep their mouth shut. The last is possibly more important than restocking the salt. There's no time to waste because they have a live target now. The world has been flayed open with possibility, seared with hope.<p>The Avatar is alive. Zuko’s fists clench and he wills them open, calm.</p><p>It's only a matter of time before news of the Avatar's return escapes out into the world. Once it's out, everyone will be after him. Nowhere in the world will be safe. Zuko's blood throbs loudly in his ears. </p><p>Admittedly, that could be the concussion. Uncle has been subtly hinting at visiting a medic while they're at the harbor. Zuko has been blatantly ignoring him.</p><p>(A third voice is missing from the argument; Zuko ignores that too.)</p><p>Dockside everything smells of wet rope, brine, tar, and, because it is a military outpost, of sun-baked blood-rich metal. Steam and salt, iron and rust. There's none of the louche freedom that pervades village ports. There are no opportunistic citrus sellers or unaired taverns or the myriad stalls all seemingly selling under-spiced meat carved off the same bull-pig.</p><p>People stare when he walks down. For all their discipline and preparation, soldiers gawk as readily as peasants. Although the soldiers are likely to be picking their nose while they do it. Or gossip about how fat Uncle's gotten.</p><p>("They aren't. They wouldn't dare. Do you know how disrespectful that is?"</p><p>"A lot, probably. But Master Iroh keeps betting ten silver pieces to anybody who guesses within a ten-pound margin of error. Do you know how much money he made when we lodged with General Nishi?")</p><p>Zuko doesn't care if they stare, they always stare, but right now the attention is dangerous. The Avatar is a bright gold coin in Zuko's mind and he wants to keep that shine undercover. The second the news gets out the world will turn its starving maw after <i>his</i> prey. The thought is excruciating. Nobody must get in his way – again.</p><p>"Getting in the way of what, Prince Zuko?"</p><p>Oh, look, here comes the first jackal.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div><i>Did you think about it</i>, he wants to ask. Did you stop to consider that you would be stepping out into the world with nothing? Nobody on your side except a brother you haven't seen since you were seven and a child who's the spirits' own joke on the world?<p>Did you think great intentions were enough to transform an ugly action into something wonderful and good?</p><p>Did you think that because roses grow in skull sockets it means that life is promising to be kind? Don’t you, with all your early past and jeweled education, remember what rests underground to feed the roses?</p><p>Did you think the world is a poem, Katara?</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>"Run away with me."<p>There's only one person on board who had a credible right to breach Zuko’s room, let alone interrupt his meditation. Unfortunately, there are <i>two</i> who have no fear of being charged with insubordination for doing so.</p><p>Zuko didn't open his eyes. "I’m. Meditating."</p><p>"Okay, finish up and then run away with me."</p><p>For the length of an inhale his tentative hold on burgeoning enlightenment stretched thinner and thinner before it simply tore. He exhaled harshly, felt the candle flames jump – </p><p>– and heard the stifled, startled inhale in echo to the fire – </p><p>– and out went the candles, mercilessly smothered. When he turned, Katara was leaning her cheek calmly against the doorframe. There was no trace of discomfort on the little intruder’s face.</p><p>"You're not allowed to run anywhere,” he said. “Not after Parrot Bay."</p><p>"That was weeks ago. Besides how was I supposed to know 'free parrot with every purchase' was a serious offer?" she said defensively. "I mean, who has that many parrots to give away?"</p><p>"Parrot. Bay."</p><p>"That doesn't prove anything. Geographic nomenclature is vastly misleading. Do you know how many islands are called Dragon whatever? Fifteen according to the last census and that – "</p><p>He held up a hand: <i>enough</i>. "Where are you running to?"</p><p>"Not just me." She smiled. It was completely and utterly unappealing. "Master Iroh is supposed to have dinner with Commander Furuta tonight."</p><p>"So are we." Furuta was an old friend of Uncle and, more importantly, the highest ranked officer at port. Whatever Zuko's own feelings were about being bored witless by two old men comparing war stories (which, according to past experience, would certainly be packed with far too many unconvincing euphemisms), he could recognize the need for such flummery.</p><p>It didn’t matter that Zuko and Iroh made up half of the most exalted Fire Nation blood in the world. Currently, they and their ship were at the mercy of the lowest bureaucrat. A Fire Nation controlled port could thwart them in a dozen, a hundred, petty and devastating ways. They could be prohibited passage. They could be refused supplies. They could be held up for inspection. They could be inspected, evaluated, tested and in turn denied, detained, dismissed. The last Zuko checked, they were lagging because some paranoid rat with a captain’s rank had whined about quarantine protocols.</p><p>("Like cabbages," Katara said once. He recalled staring at her, mutely pleading for no further explanation. But: "I checked. It takes at least three permits for cabbages to get into a military port. All we need is Master Iroh." </p><p>Zuko was proud to admit he'd willfully forgotten the rest of that conversation.)</p><p>"Dinner is hours away," Katara wheedled. "Don't you want to get off ship and stretch your legs? Experience the local atmosphere?"</p><p>"I'm not helping you shop," he said immediately.</p><p>"Like you're ever any help with that." Before he could snap back, Katara was sitting down – too close, always – and peering up at him with the sort of earnest, dewy expression that made him want to lock her in a chest. "I heard a rumor. At port. The fish fryer, he's local but doesn't care about Fire Nation if their coin is good. Anyway, he said there's a special shrine in the woods. It has something to do with longevity and bonds between humans and," she flapped her hand, "other souls."</p><p>"You think it's related to the Avatar?"</p><p>Katara shrugged. She pulled her skinny legs to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, chin perched on her knees. This close he could smell the acrid pine soap and starched water that was used for everyone's laundry on board. With Katara there was a touch of something else though, the shimmer of almond oil and short-lived flowers. </p><p>Scent blends were a popular hobby in the Capital. Robes were laid out on wooden frames over an incense burner overnight; pieces of scented wood were traded as love tokens; nobles played guessing games by passing around a censer. Incense was the art of "slow" fire, of smoldering rather than burning.</p><p>They mixed their own blend once, making a serious business of it. Picking ingredients, burning and testing and thinking. Even the act of finding the ceramic jar and the oiled paper seal was a production. Uncle's house garden had only a little puddle of a pond so Zuko had taken it upon himself to bury the jar by a stream in the royal garden. Katara calculated it would ripen just in time for the Peony Festival. </p><p>It didn't. Four days before the festival Azula found the jar and put a cricket-mouse inside. Zuko can't remember what they decided to call the mixture but he remembers, painfully, Katara's expression when they opened the jar. When they saw the little scratches inside.</p><p>"We're coming back by sunset," he said, getting up. "Any later and I'm leaving you in the woods." He held out his hand. "I'm serious. You can be the platypus-bears' problem."</p><p>"Do it and I'll haunt you for a hundred years." She took his hand. He pulled, she rose. "Face it, Prince Zuko, you'll never be rid of me."</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>She took with her: boots, two good knives, an unlined robe. Money (practical, but not enough). A comb, a jar of <i>mòyào</i> paste (good for cuts, blisters, burns), needles and rough thread. A map. A compass. Chopsticks, spark rocks, a woolen blanket to bundle it all. The tally makes for a pitiful cache; she's carried more when coming back from shopping with Uncle.<p>How polite of her, how thoughtful, to leave behind the better valuables. The fine brushes and paper, her favorite inkstone. The opal-and-onyx bracelet Uncle bought last New Year's. The beaded jacket with the rabbit-gull fur collar. The stupid little rosewood lion-turtle which she made Zuko wait for with her while the artisan (a cabinetmaker with lofty aspirations and good sales patter) carved auspicious characters into its back: <i>safety, journey, sun</i>. The painted teacups. The oiled cloak with its layered weave, like the scales of a grim deep-water fish. </p><p>He wonders if she packed everything in advance before she came that night. (She did, after all, like to plan ahead.) The thought burns bitterly. But imaging the cold-blooded practicality is kinder than the thought of her lying in the dark, near him, revising her list of what to take or leave. Watching him sink deeper and deeper asleep, enduring the hold around her while she waited to escape it.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>They have tea. It's exactly as awful as Zuko expects it to be.<p>There's nothing outright rude about Zhao, which is the rudest thing in itself. Zuko's been glared at and through, he's been avoided agilely and awkwardly, he's been snubbed and pitied. All of that is awful, but it's honest. Zuko hates liars most of all.</p><p>It's clear that Zhao wants an audience and Zuko wants to drink sea water until he's blind rather than give him one, but the world is a terrible place. So Zhao boasts, Zuko sits, and Uncle makes agreeable noises. The air in the tent smells of iron and the tannic brownness of ginseng. Zuko imagines the sandy-colored roots crawling out of the teapot and slowly, lingeringly, strangling Zhao.</p><p>On and on and on, it goes. The man is lavish with his attention to Uncle Iroh, and keen to use each compliment to reflect his own (imagined) glory. The ache at the back of Zuko's head swells from the taste of the tea, the stifled chill of the tent, the smell of the torches. Zhao's droning, self-important braying. Uncle's unruffled friendliness.</p><p>(<i>Why aren't you</i>, Zuko thinks, <i>angrier</i>? You saved her, raised her, taught her, loved her. Gave her silks and ink and a room opening onto a jeweled garden. She ate at your table, hid in your library, napped with her head in your lap. They said <i>barbarian, victim, peasant</i>, and you framed her calligraphy in gold. So why aren't you angry, furious, <b>boiling</b>?)</p><p>Angry, and perversely keen to feel angrier, Zuko imagines a fourth addition to their table. She'd hate to be here (if she was still here) and the thought is like probing a cavity: achingly irresistible. In his mind, Zuko paints her into the scene with muted colors: braids and strong eyes, embroidered sleeves, expression stitched closed. She sits near Uncle and farthest away from their host.</p><p>Zhao talks of national glory, of fated conquests, of red flags in every town and tower and port and laundry. He talks of victory, of tribute, of fawning in history books. Zhao talks like the men at Father's court, the ones not <i>quite</i> ranked high enough to merit awed, sycophantic silence. There are many such in the capitol. They talk well, they fight well, but they don't –</p><p><i>Mean well</i>, says the spectre. She’s no longer on the edge of the table but next to him. <i>Look, see it? He has greedy eyes. Don't trust him.</i></p><p><i>Shut up</i>, he thinks. <i>Go away.</i> And, <i>this is all your fault.</i></p><p>She pulls back. Woeful and implacable as a painting. <i>I'm only trying to help.</i></p><p><i>Go away,</i> he thinks again and again. <i>Leave me alone.</i></p><p>In this, her absence is more obedient than Katara ever was.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>The shrine was squat and roughhewn, its broken-toothed entrance guarded by a splintered gate. The rice straw rope stretched across the entrance was surprisingly fresh, if choppily woven. A carved plaque welcomed visitors and announced the shrine's purpose.<p>It was indeed, Zuko notes, dedicated to the concept of longevity. That, unfortunately, was as far as the good news went.</p><p>"Pets," Zuko said.</p><p>Katara shuffled her feet.</p><p>"Pets," he repeated.</p><p>She fiddled with her cuff. She’d dressed better for the excursion, Zuko noticed, than she had for visiting the permit office yesterday. There was a broad panel richly dyed embroidery at the hem and a golden rosebud at the collar. Usually Katara’s clothes had the suggestion of officiality to make up for the lack of armor.        	</p><p>"It's a shrine to pets," Zuko said because, yes, that much was obvious, thank you, but also the sheer ridiculousness deserved to be voiced. Loudly.</p><p>"Well," Katara started and Zuko knew, instinctively, that whatever she said next wouldn’t help at all. "People with pets are said to live longer."</p><p>Zuko's temper, already a raw, wet welt running from the center of his forehead into his gut, felt salted.</p><p>"If pets are what it takes," he snapped, "then Uncle will have a long, long life with <i>you</i> by his side."</p><p>It was unkind and, worse, unexpected. Katara had experience with his anger, outbursts didn't intimidate her. But, Zuko realized with a meltingly cold sensation in his stomach, she could still be surprised by it. Unkindness needed only the smallest chink to slip past one's defenses and bite.</p><p>Even with the shade of the trees and her darker skin, he could make out the high spots of color on her cheeks. She wanted to yell at him, he thought. Or kick him. Zuko would accept either one, he just wanted this over with.</p><p>Instead, Katara turned and marched back down the narrow path. Zuko was left alone by a holy pile of stones dedicated to the ghosts of beloved small things and their stupid, lonely keepers.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>Someone talks, of course.<p>Zuko's best (only) friend left him concussed and unconscious on a freezing deck in the middle of the night. In the wake of that priceless loyalty, why should anybody else on the ship bother keeping their mouth shut? At least, they're obeying <i>someone's</i> orders. Zuko almost can't be bothered to be angry about it.</p><p>Well.</p><p>No.</p><p>Right now he's angry about everything. It'd be madness to be otherwise.</p><p>Zhao knows about the Avatar. Zhao has resources, men, connections Zuko couldn't beg to get. It's hard to feel any worse about the situation.</p><p>Then Zhao says, "I almost forgot. Condolences on your loss."</p><p>For a moment, the words are only another layer of mocking. Zuko's rage rises until his teeth are floating in it.</p><p>"She was fourteen?” Zhao says. “A precarious age."</p><p><i>What – ?</i> Knocked off balance, Zuko automatically glances at Uncle. The old man's expression is shuttered.</p><p>"She will be much missed," Uncle says.</p><p>"I had no idea that she was still travelling with you, General Iroh." <i>Liar</i>. "Of course, I always thought of her as having a singular devotion. A pity to have survived such strange luck only to…a bad storm, was it?"</p><p>Zhao turns his pecking gaze to Zuko. "How terrible to lose such a loyal attendant. She must've been a great comfort to you both during your time at sea. The few times we met I always found her to be a refreshing distraction."</p><p>Zuko's mouth is lead. He can resurrect Katara in three words; he could condemn her in just as many. Even one would be enough. Fugitive. Liar. Thief. <i>Traitor.</i></p><p>The penalties for desertion are grim. That Katara isn't a soldier won't lighten the punishment, but rather inflate it: as a civilian, what she's done is pure treason. She will be hunted, branded a villain, marked. All of it, naturally, is what she deserves. What's more, she knows it. Expects it. It would be churlish to deny her, he thinks. It would be downright unkind to lie about her.</p><p>Three words. All he has to say is –</p><p>"She hated you."</p><p>Zhao's eyes harden. "Oh?"</p><p>"Prince Zuko," Uncle says. A warning.</p><p>But what's left to be afraid of?</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div><i>She's not dead.</i><p>Once he would've traded the world to say so and mean it.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>She wasn’t in her cabin. She wasn’t in Uncle's cabin. She wasn’t in <i>his</i> cabin, which was – understandable. She wasn’t in the kitchen, the galley, the boiler room, the cargo deck, the command tower, the bridge. She wasn’t at the carpenter's, the cookshop, the tailor's, the smithy, the teahouse, the apothecary, the silk store, the noodle stand, the pawnbroker. Zuko passed a charming teahouse with conspicuously green shutters and the scent of jasmine by the door but he didn’t slow down. Even at his most paranoid he didn’t think Katara would hide in a place like that, and he couldn’t imagine the reaction at stepping inside to ask for a blue-eyed girl. (And if he could imagine, he wouldn’t.)<p>Evening shrouded the port by the time Zuko officially ran out of reasonable or inane places to search. The only remaining conclusion at this point was Katara having evaporated to spite him. If anybody was stubborn enough to achieve such a thing...</p><p>(Underneath the exasperation ran a freezing stream of worry: she was twelve, and a girl, and stubborn, and pretty, too pretty, and alone, and bold. Too bold, too often. Would the red of her jacket be enough to distract from the tell-tale eyes? Would a stranger look at her and think: <i>why not?</i> Zuko had been raised with faith in the honor of his nation's soldiers; the noble sentiment lost more and more of its gilt the more time they spent at sea.)</p><p>He didn’t think she'd go back to the silly shrine, but he trudged up the narrow path again anyway. Maybe the accumulated spiritual herd of long-past cat-owls, goat-dogs, sparrowkeets, and poodle-monkeys would take pity and send him a sign. Or maybe he'd trip and break his neck. At this point, Zuko was fine with either option.</p><p>The spirits had a sense of humor. He was nearly there when heard the familiar voice. </p><p>"I said, <i>let go</i>."</p><p>Zuko snapped the last branch in front of him in two and stepped into the clearing.</p><p>Katara wasn’t bleeding or limping or on fire. Instead she was fine and whole, and staring at Zuko like he'd been the one missing for hours doing hells-knows-what while wandering unchaperoned and undersized around a military port. Zuko wanted to grab her and shake until something fell off. But that wasn’t the sort of thing they did in front of an audience.</p><p>The stranger next to Katara was vaguely familiar. He was a grown man, though decades younger than Uncle. The armor was more than just respectable; this was no simple sailor or foot soldier. There was a curve to the chin, a cant of the shoulders, the meticulous sideburns...Zuko couldn’t put a name to the face but he felt with absolute certainty: <i>I don't like you.</i></p><p>"Prince Zuko." The armored shoulders tilted forward. The bow was polite but perfunctory. Zuko felt his mysterious dislike grow more legitimate. "It's an honor, ah, a <i>pleasure</i> to meet you at last. I'm sorry to have missed greeting you and your esteemed uncle when you arrived. I'm Captain Zhao."</p><p>The polite thing was to bow back, lower, in accordance to greeting a higher ranked officer. Banishment made everyone higher ranked than Zuko. There was a canny tint to the man's gaze which made it clear that he was very familiar with the equation of rank between them. Uncle would’ve advised Zuko to bow anyway: <i>honor the ways of civility, and in doing so rise above those who scorn them.</i> But Uncle wasn’t here.</p><p>"You're the one who's stalling my ship," Zuko said. “You filed a quarantine notice about it.”</p><p>"A pesky formality," the man replied. "All unknown ships must undergo the inspections ordered by protocol. We must be ever vigilant for infiltration from foreign elements."</p><p>The tone was bland; the insult blatant. The “foreign element” listened with a wooden expression.</p><p>"Maybe your clerk is going blind," Zuko said. "Double check your lists. My ship has no unwanted elements."</p><p>"Of course, of course," Zhao said. He spread his arms suddenly, affable. "But tell me of your mission. The Avatar! The stuff of legends and you to be the one to finally find him."</p><p>"Histories," Katara said. "Not legends."</p><p>There was a timbre of elegant, bloodless politeness in her words. She was watching the man in the same way that the ship cat watched Zuko: tense, paranoid, and, given his personal experience with the mangy horror, keen for a chance to scratch an eye out. Whomever this Captain Zhao was, Zuko realized with acidic clarity, Katara <i>hated</i> him.</p><p>How…weird.</p><p>Has he ever seen Katara hate before? She disliked heeled slippers, overcrowded halls, sitting when she could be talking, dust motes in ink, white radishes, someone explaining what she already knows, green bedrooms, the scent of peeled hemp torches. She shunned mobs, ornate compliments, dim rooms with high ceilings, dark lanes. She disapproved of profligacy, the noble right to imprison at will, schemers, books being labeled "too difficult" for children, green ink on blue paper. If asked to name something Katara actually hated, the best Zuko could provide was papayas. If asked to name <i>someone</i> Katara hated, well. She didn’t.</p><p>And yet, Captain Zhao.</p><p>If Captain Zhao was aware of the animosity beaming at him, he was snubbing it with aplomb. Or, worse, he was amused by it. Zuko's temper swelled in sympathetic irritation when the man's smile widened and his voice turned plusher and friendlier, oilier.</p><p>"Histories, of course. I've only an old soldier's appreciation of scholastic indulgences. But you," the voice gets warmer and Katara's eyes colder, "I understand you have a refined reputation for such things."</p><p>"Katara doesn't have a reputation," Zuko said. "She's twelve."</p><p>"Your honored sister was deemed a prodigy at a much younger age," Zhao countered sleekly. "Although Firebending is a very different accomplishment from quoting pretty poems."</p><p>He was right of course. Zuko found most poetry to be overwrought, self-indulgent, utterly exhausting twaddle. Poetry was a soup of symbols, a hairball of allegories, a mud puddle of rhymes, a mess. Classic metaphors gave Zuko hives.</p><p>But poetry could also show two completely contradictory things to be simultaneously true. Such as, <i>this man is correct in everything he says</i>. And in the same breath, <i>he should be kicked in the eye</i>.</p><p>"Do you know why General Iroh is called the Dragon of the West?" Katara suddenly asked.</p><p>The captain looked as surprised by the question as Zuko, although Zuko felt he hid it better than the other man. Katara's expression had turned placid and nefariously reasonable. Zuko recognized the warning signs. Katara, spirits help them, was about to be clever.</p><p>"I'm aware of General Iroh's glorious capture of the last dragon," Zhao said.</p><p>"You mean killing it?" Katara asked. "That's not much of a reason for a title. People kill things all the time."</p><p>"A dragon is different from a pig chicken," Zhao said.</p><p>"Haven't you ever wondered why?" Her tone made it clear he hadn't. "Dragons are only so big. How many pots would it take to cook one?"</p><p>"That's hardly - "</p><p>"I bet you could eat a dragon in one sitting if there were guests at the table," Katara continued thoughtfully. "It'd be pretty silly to grant a title after a dinner dish."</p><p>"This is nonsense," Zhao said. "Dragons aren't dinner."</p><p>He felt foolish the instant the words tumbled out, Zuko could see it on the man's increasingly pinched face. He was bristling. If anything, that made Katara all the more serene.</p><p>"I'm simply saying that nobody goes around named after their last meal," she said. "Even you, Captain, must've strangled a pig chicken at some point or stepped on a worm - but nobody's calling you a worm."</p><p>Zuko was starting to suspect that wasn't exactly true.</p><p>"General Iroh is lucky to have a companion so dedicated to keeping him humble," Zhao said. "Seeing your obvious struggle with his title."</p><p>"There's no struggle," Katara said with wide-eyed innocence. "Master Iroh will always be remembered as the Dragon of the West."</p><p><i>Where are you going with this?</i> Zuko thought.</p><p>Zhao seemed to think the same. "Is that a fact?"</p><p>"No, it's poetry." Katara said, unsmiling. "That's how 'pretty poetry' works, Captain. It turns soldiers into dragons and names into gold. It preserves Avatars. Poetry takes what happened and lets it live forever. Master Iroh will be the Dragon of the West long, long after we're gone."</p><p>She smiled unexpectedly, ferociously bright. "Well. You before me, obviously. I’m only twelve."</p><p>This, Zuko thought, was dangerous. There’d been something mocking on the captain’s face when Zuko had first stepped into the clearing, and then there’d been something angry when Katara defied him, but now…</p><p>She was baiting him, Zuko realized. Whatever was going unsaid between the two, it was burrowing into the captain’s head.</p><p>“Katara,” Zuko said. She didn’t turn. He stepped forth and took hold of her arm. “Let’s go. Otherwise we'll be late for dinner with Commander Furuta.”</p><p>It galled Zuko to name drop the commander’s name, but the results were unquestionable; Zhao’s expression smoothed over like sand under a wave.</p><p>“You mustn’t linger on my behalf,” he said. He bowed with a conspicuously improved depth. “It was an honor to make your acquaintance at last, Prince Zuko.”</p><p>“You’ll quit delaying our ship,” Katara said.</p><p>Zhao’s gaze lingered for a tick too long on the haughty, straining little face. When he smiled at her, Zuko’s hands warmed.</p><p>“I will make every effort to speed up the process,” Zhao said. “As a favor to an old acquaintance.”</p><p>“We don’t need favors,” Zuko said. “Do your duty, Captain.”</p><p>He turned and headed back down the path, hand safely locked around Katara’s skinny arm. He didn’t let go until they were among the noises of soldiers and cargo, gulls and water.</p><p>"You know that's not the only reason Uncle is called Dragon of the West," Zuko said.</p><p>"I know," Katara said. "But what I said will bother him a lot more than fire breathing tricks."</p><p>"Why would any of it bother him?" Zuko asked. Except that she was right; the Captain had been bothered and badly so.</p><p>"Because he wants to be the sort of man there's poetry about," Katara said. "He wants to be remembered as important."</p><p>“Too bad for him that there are no more dragons,” Zuko said.</p><p>“It wouldn’t matter anyway,” Katara said. “A dragon wouldn’t be enough to satisfy his appetite.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div><i>If I do something</i>, she said that night. <i>Something terrible…</i><p>Staring down at Zhao, Zuko thinks that ‘terrible’ is such a hazy value. Is it truly terrible to strike at this man, with his arrogance and slyness, his mocking voice and his transparent ambition? There’s a ledger in Zuko mind which is filled with two years’ worth of offenses. The tally under Zhao’s name is bloated, and today has added many notches. <i>This</i> is for mocking Zuko's banishment. <i>This</i> is for toadying to Uncle. <i>This</i> is for interrogating Zuko's crew. This is for the smug grin. <i>This</i> is for –</p><p>“Do it!” Zhao shouts.</p><p><i>Things happen because they're there to happen</i>, she’d said. And, <i>I'm not sorry I met you. I've never been sorry, not for that.</i></p><p>Zuko pours flame onto the ground.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>Dinner with the Commander was boring, monotonous, resplendent.<p>They ate crabs preserved in aromatic wine and crispy-cold long onions rolled up in leaf-thin tofu. Vinegared firefly squid dotted pepper leaf bud. Translucent slices of scorpion fish draped over its own deep-fried head bones. Grilled chestnuts in lotus syrup. Tartly pickled lily bulbs. Duck grilled on magnolia leaves. Jeweled rice mixed with tender bamboo shoots. Red pears baked in parchment.</p><p>Whatever his military reputation, Furuta was a benign presence in person. He greeted Uncle with affection of an old acquaintance. He praised Zuko’s dedication to his mission. He complimented Katara’s hand-painted gift. (A copy of a poem, of course.) In thanks, he brought her a bowl of berry-studded shaved ice with his own hands.</p><p>“A pleasant end to our stay and good omen for our departure,” Uncle said when they returned to the ship. The words were true. It had been gratifying to find that while Zuko had been jogging around like a panicked nursemaid, all the travel affairs had been properly sorted; they would depart in the morning with fully restocked supplies. Uncle talked longingly of more time at port, but overall seemed as ready to depart as the rest of the crew.</p><p>“Would you like some tea before bed, Master Iroh?” Katara asked.</p><p>“Not tonight.” He smiled gratefully and patted her hand. “This old man tongue is set to fall off, and the rest of me isn’t in much better shape. I bid you both goodnight.”</p><p>They watched him walk down the hall and turn the corner.</p><p>“I’d like some tea,” Zuko found himself saying.</p><p>Katara’s brows jumped, but she simply said, “Sure.”</p><p>They walked to Katara’s room without much conversation – and without stopping to get cups or a kettle.</p><p>“Hiding a kettle in your room?” Zuko asked, stepping inside.</p><p>“Did you actually want tea?” Katara asked.</p><p>“Never,” Zuko said.</p><p>Katara shrugged and shut the door behind them.</p><p>Like every other bit of personal space on the ship, Katara’s room had no excesses. The meager space it had was further whittled down by the presence of stacked trunks, scroll boxes, flat chests, and paper. A lot of paper. If there was any doubt at whether the room belonged to a non-Firebender, it was the oceans of paper. Some of the collectors and scholars they encountered were reasonably willing to part with their Avatar writings for a price. Many more, however, hoarded the antique words with a zeal bordering on mania. Consequently, Katara had become a very fast and very capable copyist in their months at sea.</p><p><i>She’ll have memorized it all in a few years</i>, Zuko reflected. It was an unpleasantly realistic idea. Almost in echo to the thought, Katara was already sitting down at the black enameled writing desk and wetting her inkstone. </p><p>“We’re leaving in the morning,” he said for lack of a wittier topic. “Did you get everything you needed at port?”</p><p>She picked up the brush, <i>hmm</i>'ing, and he idly noted the dark blotch on her wrist. He remembered the soot on the stumps near the shrine. Automatically, Zuko reached out for a better look and Katara – flinched. </p><p>Suspicion punched through him. Katara tugged her sleeve down but it was a small room and Zuko was fast. In two fast strides, he was at her side and pulling the soft beaten silk aside.</p><p>The clinical, armored part of his mind decided: <i>it's not so bad</i>. She'd gotten worse from their training, from smacking her hand on a door, from being nudged with too much affection by the komodo rhinos. Already the bruises' edges were yellowing; Katara healed fast. Zuko noted this even as the rest of his mind went aflame.</p><p>"I'll rip his hands off."</p><p>"Don't be dramatic." She pulled her hand away; he let it go. Fine fabric slid down to veil the ring of prints. "Anyway, we're leaving tomorrow, remember?"</p><p>"So I'll challenge him tonight," Zuko said. "At sunset."</p><p>"It’s already dark." Quick as water from a smashed cup, Katara was on her feet and rounding on him. "Drop it, Zuko."</p><p>"He <i>hurt</i> you."</p><p>"Because he's a graceless oaf who can't control his own strength," Katara said witheringly. "He tried to grab my hand when I wouldn't speak to him. He let go right away."</p><p>"What right does he have to touch you in the first place? What right does anyone?" Rage swarmed in his stomach. It had a guilty aftertaste. He never should've left her alone. He should've controlled his temper and stayed by her. He's older, he's a prince, he's supposed to be able to protect the people he's responsible for.</p><p>"A duel would mean we're staying here that much longer," Katara said. "I don't want that. I want to leave. <i>We</i> need to leave."</p><p>"If Uncle knew about this," Zuko started.</p><p>"If you tell Master Iroh anything about this, then I won't speak to you for a month," she said. "A <i>very</i> long month."</p><p>It was hard to push down the fury, the boiling in his veins, but it was harder to ignore the rigid set of Katara's jaw. The lamplight made the soft bones of her face angular and harsh. There was no arguing with her in this awful state.</p><p>Zuko exhaled, hard. He did it two more times before trusting himself to speak.</p><p>"If he ever touches you again, for any reason, I don't care if you quit speaking to me for a year." He caught her gaze and pinned it. "I'll challenge him."</p><p>Her expression at that was ragged: worry, pain, exasperation. <i>Don't do it</i>, she was going to say. Or <i>I'm worried about you</i>.</p><p>She said, "I knew it was a pet shrine."</p><p><i>What the –</i> "What?"</p><p>Katara’s cheeks puffed as she roughly exhaled. "I knew it was a pet shrine. The fish fryer mentioned something like that and I asked around to confirm it. So. Pet shrine. I knew."</p><p>"And you still marched us out to see it?" Zuko asked. Suddenly the whole awful day had an absurd complexion. "Why? Katara, what were you thinking? We could have avoided all of this, all of today!" He pointed at her. "Do you know how many lousy noodle stands I had to bribe while looking for you?"</p><p>"Three?" she asked warily.</p><p>Two, but only because the third was closed by the time he got there. "What was the point of the whole worthless jaunt? Did you want me to get angry about it? Why would you do that, Katara?"</p><p>"I don't know!" She threw her hands up. "Because I thought it'd be funny, maybe."</p><p>"Funny," Zuko repeated dangerously. </p><p>"Okay, so maybe not funny, but it'd be a distraction."</p><p>"The last thing I need right now is a distraction!" Zuko said. "Did you forget what we're doing? Is this mission some kind of joke to you?"</p><p>"Of course not," she said. "I want to find the Avatar as much as you do."</p><p>"It's hardly the same thing in your case," Zuko said. "You're not banished. You can go home any time."</p><p>He had a brief glimmer of warming, the tell-tale twitch in her shoulder, before a skinny arc of ink whipped out at the wall behind him. It spattered hard against the tapestry.</p><p>The Waterbending paused them both. In the sudden hush, ink began to drip off the tapestry's edge with a quiet heavy plop.</p><p>"How are you going to explain that?" Zuko asked blankly.</p><p>"I'll say I tripped."</p><p>"While doing what, juggling your brushes?"</p><p>"Fine, I'll say I threw it at you the old-fashioned way," Katara said. "Nobody will ask for an explanation then." Nonetheless, she got up and began dabbing at the stain with a wad of mulberry paper.</p><p>"Try Waterbending it out," Zuko suggested after watching her rub at the damp with a strong lack of success.</p><p>Katara pitched him an annoyed glance but obediently curved her fingers over the damage. It took three passes before the ink began sluggishly creeping out of the fabric. The end result was a puddle of ink and pale patches on the tapestry.</p><p>"It's ruined," Katara said.</p><p>"Like you said, nobody will ask. Besides Uncle will be happy for an excuse to buy a replacement. You never liked it anyway,” Zuko added with a sudden burst of realization.</p><p>She didn't correct him, but still seemed worried. She was always worried lately. Without examining the urge, Zuko turned and tore the tapestry off its perch. He threw it onto the ink puddle and ground down with his foot on the fabric.</p><p>"There," he said. "<i>I</i> ruined it."</p><p>“Well,” Katara said. She didn’t say anything more. Instead, she put the paper she'd been using to previously clean the ink at the edge of the writing desk. She considered the fallen tapestry with her hands on her hips then knelt and – Zuko obligingly moved his foot – rolled up the thick fabric into a neat roll. Once done, she sat back on her heels and looked up at him.</p><p>"That didn't make things better at all," Katara said.</p><p>“I wasn’t trying to,” Zuko said. "I was trying to – "</p><p>Frustration welled up in his stomach, his chest, his throat, around his neck. He closed his fist over the angry star forming in the palm of his hand. The skin of his knuckles turned paler, brighter, growing illuminated by the sick, useless irritation coursing through him –</p><p>– only to abruptly extinguish when a smaller hand closed fearlessly over the warming fist.</p><p>“You <i>always</i> try to help,” Katara said. “It’s kind of your whole thing.”</p><p>“Don’t be so sure,” Zuko said.</p><p>“I’m sure.”</p><p>“What makes you the expert?”</p><p>“Years of relentless study and training,” Katara said in the high-nose tone of a regal lecturer. “You’re my fifth favorite topic – right between forest verses and aqueducts.”</p><p>“Mushrooms and sewers, thank you. It’s nice to know I rate such exalted neighbors.” She was still, well, not holding his hand but touching it. Inexplicably embarrassed Zuko pulled away. Katara didn’t seem to mind. She picked up the fabric roll and held it to her chest. Like a child, putting away her playthings.</p><p>“Please don’t fight that awful man,” she said. “Just don't, okay? Not this time.”</p><p>“I’m not afraid to face him,” Zuko said.</p><p>“He’s a Master,” Katara said.</p><p>“That doesn’t matter.”</p><p>“Of course, it matters.” Katara opened one of the trunks and proceeded to punch the ruined tapestry into it. “It matters to anybody who’s normal, who’s careful, who doesn’t want to terrify their uncle or their stupid best friend.”</p><p>“There’s no reason to be concerned about men like him,” Zuko said. “Men like that aren’t worth it.”</p><p>“Men like that fill the Fire Lord’s court,” Katara said. She smashed the trunk lid down with wincing force. “They occupy command posts and the Admiralty and, and, I don’t know, they probably name all the messenger hawks too. Men like that are everywhere and you can’t pick a fight with each one we meet!”</p><p><i>I will if they touch you</i>, Zuko thought.  But he felt too uncomfortable to say it and too angry to rephrase it.</p><p>“We’ll leave tomorrow as planned," Zuko said. He turned towards the door.</p><p>"Zuko?" He paused with his hand on the door.  "He shifts his weight badly. I saw it when he reached for me. I don't think his balance is very good. At least, it's not as good as yours at least."</p><p>"Get some sleep," Zuko said.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div><i>Coward</i>, Zhao had said. But what did men like him know about it? Where's the bravery in striking someone you hate, the daring in lashing out at an annoyance, the courage in facing a goon?<p>Zuko's best friend kissed him, concussed him, and ran away with the only thing that could restore Zuko's life. That took balls.</p><p>In some ways grieving for Katara (before) doesn't feel all that different from being - horribly, ardently, tremendously – angry at Katara (now). There's the same deep-rooted sense of exasperation (why was she somewhere she wasn't meant to be?), the same brutal guilt (he should've stopped her), the same painful bafflement (why do this?).</p><p>But while Zuko's grief felt ancient from the first day, his anger is evergreen. The first time she was gone he would - not forget exactly, but rather trip over the absence. He would halt half-way to her room or shut his mouth on an unspoken question or let his hand fall back from the missing target it'd be reaching for. Everything ached with silence. The experience was like a case of blood loss: progressive, numbing, leaving everything previously warm and alive colder inch by inch, drop by drop.</p><p>It's different this time. There are no painful reminders of her absence because no reminders are necessary; he is never far from the fact of what happened. The exit wounds she left won’t clot, but there's no sense of weakness with the injury. Instead, the pain is stimulating. Inspirational.</p><p>Poetic even.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>"I can't believe you made me hike out to a cat shrine."<p>Katara's shoulders stiffened. She didn’t turn around but he could see telltale tremors and easily imagine her chin trembling. Her hands were balled at her side, tightly gripping the loose hem of her tunic.</p><p>Zuko sighed and sat down besides her. "Go ahead."</p><p>She guffawed like a howler monkey. </p><p>Zuko seriously considered shoving her overboard. The deck was empty of witnesses, they were too far out at sea for any other boats to fish her out. Shaking, Katara rolled against his side with her hands ineffectively clasped over her mouth. She wasn't leaning on him exactly, but her presence molded neatly against his arm and ribs. Too close to simply kick away, which was obviously part of her cunning plan.</p><p><i>Eh, why waste the energy?</i> He'd just end up diving in after her eventually. Uncle would never let him hear the end of it otherwise.</p><p>"The next time you make me suffer through such nonsense," he said. "I'm not speaking to you for a month. Two months." She was still quaking with giggles. "That's <i>if</i> I deign to speak to you again."</p><p>"Yes, Your Highness. As is your royal right, Your Highness."</p><p><i>Terrible creature</i>, Zuko thought. <i>Completely irredeemable.</i> </p><p>"You should, though."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"Talk." The damned giggling was ebbing away, but her voice was colored with its aftershocks. "Even when you're angry, you should talk to me."</p><p>"Why would I want to be around you if I was angry with you?"</p><p>"Okay, talk to me when I'm not around."</p><p>Zuko frowned at her. "That makes no sense."</p><p>"Really? Tell me about it. No, wait, let me..." She made a production of getting up. Zuko put a hand on her shoulder and shoved her back down. She settled back with smiling eyes.</p><p>She was the absolute worst, really.</p><p>“Do you think we'll find him?”</p><p>Zuko didn’t know why he asked, but Katara didn’t hesitate.</p><p>“Absolutely certain,” she said.</p><p>“It's been a hundred years,” he said.</p><p>“Closer to a hundred and ten, actually.”</p><p>Trust Katara to add a painful detail for the sake of record keeping. “My father, my grandfather, they all searched for the Avatar. They sent out ships, specialized patrols. Whole armies.”</p><p>“Well, there's your answer,” she said. Zuko looked at her, confused. She rolled her eyes and, predictably, dodged a second shove. “The Avatar isn't a soldier, what are armies going to know about how he or she thinks?”</p><p>“So we're going to succeed because instead of armed men and major resources, we have...poetry.”</p><p>Katara grinned. “Exactly.”</p><p><i>I’m sharing the most crucial task of my life with a tiny madwoman</i>, Zuko thought. Maybe he should’ve been the one jumping overboard.</p><p>…then again, Katara would likely jump in after him.</p><p>She was still smiling at him. Impulsively Zuko put a hand on her face and tried to, gently, rub the expression away. Katara batted at his hand like a cat.</p><p>“Besides we have a definite advantage,” Katara said after they both quit tussling like peasant brats. “Fire Lord Sozin's poetry was totally awful.”</p><p>“That's probably a treasonous statement,” Zuko said, looking back out at the water.</p><p>“No doubt.” She hadn't quit, he could hear it. “Are you going to turn me in?”</p><p><i>Tempting</i>, he thought.</p><p>“Sooner or later,” Zuko said.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>The engine room is never empty and rarely quiet but for now, as ordered, there is only him and Uncle.<p>Somewhere in the marina they left behind is a spark which is mounting into a blaze. The wood for this fire, after all, has been drying for a hundred years.</p><p><i>One hundred and twelve, actually</i>, Zuko thinks.</p><p>“Zhao will report it,” Uncle says. “Even if he does not, the news will get out somehow. Everyone in Fire Nation will know the Avatar is back. There will be nowhere for them—ah, for him to hide.”</p><p>Zuko nods and stays silent.</p><p>After a moment, Uncle – soft, kind, foolish Uncle – rests a hand on his shoulder. “I meant every word I said, nephew. Today you faced malignity and spite but chose to answer it with honor. You fought well.”</p><p>"He's got bad balance," Zuko says. “I knew to watch out for it.”</p><p>“He's impatient. It's to be expected.” Uncle agrees. “You were skilled to notice it so quickly.”</p><p>“I didn’t,” Zuko says.</p><p>An uncomfortable pause, an unspoken name, falls between them.</p><p>“When did you ask the crew to lie?” Zuko asks.</p><p>“I…advised them of discretion.” Uncle bows his head. “I am sorry not to have discussed it with you first.”</p><p>“Discretion.” Zuko tastes the word and finds it raw, bitter. He wants to spit it out on the floor.</p><p>Wiser not too, though. Sweetness kills one’s appetite but the right touch of bitter whets it. Already he craves another mouthful. Something to tear and sink his teeth into, something with more blood than poetry.</p><p>“If we find him,” Uncle says. “We will find her.”</p><p>“<i>When</i> we find him,” Zuko says. </p><p>Inside the furnace the paintbrushes crumble into ash.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>1) This chapter was posted as part of Zutara Fanworks Appreciation Week for the “Angst Wednesday” challenge. Amazingly, nobody argued about the angst part.</p><p>2) A massive plate of thanks goes out to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/RideBoldlyRide">RideBoldlyRide</a> who boldly served as this chapter’s midwife…despite receiving the text three days later than promised. Along with being an generally awesome creature, she’s also part of the trio that produces the WONDROUS <a href="https://jdteahour.tumblr.com/">Jasmine Dragon Tea Hour</a> podcast. And as if serving up delightful and intelligent bi-weekly discussions about all things Zutara and AtLA wasn’t enough for these splendid mermaids, they’re also producing a full cast version of Tempest in a Teacup. Up to chapter five has been released so far and shut up, I’m not crying, you’re crying, it’s beautiful.</p><p>3) Hugs and hot dogs go to this story’s fic-kin-twin <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/antarcticas/pseuds/antarcticas">Antarctica</a>. You know what you did, and I thank you.</p><p>4) An additional dose of thanks and pandas goes to CobraOnTheCob, who did a lightning proofread for this chapter.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. coda: +the interrogation+</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>For anybody who wondered: why did the ship crew lie to Zhao about Katara?</p><p>(Spoiler: it was me. I wondered.)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>"Tell me about the girl."</i>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>"Oh, no, not the red."<p>Jee's hand pauses over the ribbon. He glances at the speaker. "No?"</p><p>"Not unless you want to be completely boring." Katara shakes her head. "Or are you honestly going to say her closet lacks red?"</p><p>"I thought that would make it easier," Jee says. "Isn't the point to have everything, er, match?"</p><p>The look Katara gives him is drenched with pity - and exactly like what he receives from Chiyo when he tries to help back home. He can almost hear her voice: <i>Really, dad? Really. What were you thinking?</i></p><p>Suddenly the benign display of trinkets and combs is rife with risk.</p><p>"Maybe...pink?"</p><p>This look is familiar too, although he's more used to seeing it bounce off the Prince's back. Fond exasperation is the kindest way to describe it. </p><p>"The ochre satin, please. And do you have more of the peony patterned one, but wider?" At the seller's nod, Katara smiles brilliantly. "He'll take two metres worth of that as well."</p><p>"Isn't that a lot for a hair ribbon?" Jee asks.</p><p>"Absolutely," Katara says. "But it's just right for trimming an autumn robe. If she gets it in time, she can have something really spectacular in time for the Lantern Night. You said she's fast with a needle."</p><p>Chiyo is, but when did he mention it out loud? There's no point feeling surprised; Katara plucks personal information like a mother picking burrs off a coat. It's no wonder half the ship suspected her of being a spy at first.</p><p>That was ages ago, of course. In ship time, months make up a lifetime.</p><p>The stall owner finishes measuring and cutting the fabric. The woman hands over the wrapped package to Katara with a smile, although she takes Jee's money with a notably cooler expression. He's not surprised about this either; the port town has only been under Fire Nation rule for a few months.</p><p>From the tension in the market alone, Jee figures it'll take a lot longer for the town to accept its circumstances than it did for the ship to accept Katara's.</p><p><i>Not that anyone quite figured out what those are either</i>, Jee thinks. He watches the little figure walk ahead of him, brisk and sure with purpose. There's plenty of red on <i>her</i> today, which is unusual. The girl is a chameleon-hare when they land at foreign ports: green sleeves one day, blue leathers the next. He's seen her with the fine combs of a well-born daughter, and the apron of a maid on an errand, and high-necked robe of a scholar. If people won't talk to the first or the second, they will to the third - or the fourth, the fifth; Katara's relentless. They'll talk to a Fire Nation girl, too, although this town that clings like a barnacle to the coast, resolutely hard-shelled, wouldn't have been Ji's strongest bet for friendly conversation.</p><p>Katara must know this too. All the same, today she's unmistakably, almost challengingly, Fire Nation: red-brown jacket, stout boots, hair in a strict braid down her back. A wreath of lilies crawling up her sleeve.</p><p>"Lieutenant?"</p><p>He startles a little. "Yes?"</p><p>"I wanted to get some pickled mulberries." She nods at a conspicuously pungent stall. "Do you think we should get bamboo shoots, too? It'll be nice to have a change of flavor for dinner."</p><p>"Cook should've restocked the supplies by now," Jee reminds her.</p><p>"Well, if nobody wants them then the rhinos can have a treat," Katara says and heads over to bargain. Jee hasn't the heart to warn against wasting money on a komodo rhino's palate. No matter the "treat", the beasts always look like they'd rather eat someone's arm.</p><p>Besides there's a happy glow of familiarity in watching Katara haggle over pickles and plums, shaking melons, inspecting mussels for chipped lids. It reminds him of being a small shadow at his grandmother's side at the country markets. The old woman made half the merchants cry at the sight of her. He peers at one the barrels, spellbound by the feel of nostalgia and the mouth-peeling reek of vinegar.</p><p>A hand grabs his elbow and tugs hard. In the same breath a telltale pressure at the back of his head cries warning, and Jee's arm sweeps out instinctively to bat the <i>second</i> projectile out of the air. It splatters against his fist.</p><p>
  <i>What in the - </i>
</p><p>The pulp on Jee's hand is wet, sticky, and - sweet? He lifts the hand to his nose and sniffs: more ripe than rotten. Next to him, Katara looks dazed. There's a red blotch on her forehead where the fruit must've splashed her as well.</p><p>There's no third throw, but the damage is done. The stall keeper is shouting. The fruit seller next to her is shouting, too. Everyone is shouting or looking at someone shouting or shouting to be heard above everyone else's shouting. </p><p>Jee can already see the market watchman shoving his way through the crowd. He's wearing green and brown.</p><p>There's another swell of commotion at the watchman's approach. More shouting and then the crowd disgorges its prey: a skinny boy with big eyes and stained hands. Jee's not impressed. Neither is the watchman by the tightening of the man's expression. The boy looks barely thirteen. Down on his knees, he stares up at Jee with fading courage.</p><p>The whole thing is on the verge of turning ugly, uglier than it deserves. Jee's got no fondness of being pelted with leftover fruit, but this isn't about him. It's about the uniform. Attacking a Fire Nation soldier at a Fire Nation controlled town, no matter how tenuous that control, is the sort of crime someone will try to make an example of.</p><p>Stupid boy, Jee thinks. It's clear from the watchman's expression that he shares the thought. Nonetheless, duty is duty; the man reaches grimly for the child - </p><p>And pulls back when a torrent of mulberries pours over the boy's head.</p><p>"There!" Katara says, the now empty bucket held high in her hands. "How do <i>you</i> like it?"</p><p>A sudden hiccup of silence seizes the crowd. Jee feels the moment lodge in his own throat. Anything can happen now. The mob may split into violent halves. The watchman may try to arrest them. They're too deeply entrenched to simply run. If he sweeps a wide enough swath, though, perhaps it'll be enough to buy some time. Katara is quick and an unlikely target. She may make it back to the ship in time to get reinforcements. And if not, well, at least she'd have made it back to the ship.</p><p>Then, laughter.</p><p>It starts as loudly as a burp and harsh as a cough, a pinprick of surprise. One voice then, miraculously, another. By the time Jee's lungs thaw, the crowd is roaring with harmless laughter.</p><p>In the midst of the noise, Jee notices Katara bend down and whisper in the boy's wet ear. He nods tersely, rising to his feet and looking confused (and well-seasoned.) </p><p>"That's enough, that's enough." The watchman waves at the crowd. "Move on and mind your business." He turns to Jee. "Apologies for the mess, soldier."</p><p>"Lieutenant," Katara corrects. The man looks at her and, after a moment, nods.</p><p>"Lieutenant, of course." he says. He meets Jee's eyes. "A spat between children. Sorry to have wasted your time. Lieutenant." The green eyes dart down. "Miss."</p><p>In answer Katara reaches into her coin purse and counts out a palmful of coppers. She holds it out to the watchman. "For my lunch."</p><p>He puts a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder. "This one will cover it."</p><p>"I don't accept meals from boys I don't know," Katara says primly. 		</p><p>That gets a choppy laugh out of the man. "Well said."</p><p>"I'm sorry," the boy suddenly says. He sounds even younger than Jee suspected, voice almost girlishly high. "I thought you were - are you okay?"</p><p>"I'm hungry," Katara says. She glances up at Jee. "May we go?"</p><p>"Of course," Jee says.</p><p>It takes only a few minutes for them to exit the market and emerge on a yet undisturbed wide street. Jee vaguely recognizes having passed it earlier.</p><p>"Take a right," Katara says breathlessly and that lack, the pained wheeze, forces Jee to stop and peer closer.</p><p>She's standing with one hand braced on the wall. There's still pulp at the edge of her forehead. The juice is making a runny line trickling down her face.</p><p>The red, red juice...oh, Katara.</p><p>Gently, Jee takes her face in his hands. He tilts it towards the light to better inspect the injury. </p><p>"What did he throw?" he asks.</p><p>"A piece of rubbish, I think." She glances up at Jee's expression. "A <i>little</i> piece of rubbish."</p><p>Big enough, he thinks. She'll have a scar if luck fails and they don't put enough salve on it.</p><p>"That boy needs to be held accountable," Jee says.</p><p>"He was scared," Katara says. "There was a skirmish in the nearby valley. People in the market were talking about it."</p><p>"Rebels?"</p><p>"I don't think they see them like that yet," she says. "The local commander probably has his hands full without us adding to the troubles. It's better if we leave quietly. Besides Prince Zuko doesn't...oh."</p><p>Katara touches her forehead and frowns at the reddened fingertips. </p><p><i>Yes</i>, Jee thinks. <i>Oh</i>. He was wondering when she'd get around to realizing that particular repercussion.</p><p>Katara sighs. "Well. So much for having a nice dinner."</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div><i>"What was her role on the ship?"</i><p>
  <i>"Role, sir?"</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"What did she do here?"</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"Read mostly."</i>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>It's hard to remember who started it, but the common joke is: would you rather spend the night in the prince's quarters or the komodo rhino pens? <i>Depends on which one bathed last.</i><p>One day someone will say the joke too loudly to escape the prince's hearing, but until then it's a harmless bit of sailor talk.</p><p>"Sure, right up to the point where you're laughing at the bottom of the ocean," Katara says.</p><p>Menshi grins at her. She's got such a sour little face sometimes, it makes him want to ruffle her feathers with both hands. "You think I can't outrun a lubber on my own ship?"</p><p>"I think I'd love hearing you explain to him how it's 'your' ship."</p><p>"We know each other too well to be anybody else's." He knocks the cargo wall with his knuckles; the dull clanging echo is more familiar than his own heartbeat. In the cages,a horned shadow snorts at the noise. "I've been deeper in her innards than I have in – er."</p><p>Katara's eyes sit on his face expectantly. "Yes?"</p><p>"Nevermind." Menshi coughs in one fist. Distraction is the wiser part of valor. "What'cha reading to them this time?"</p><p>In answer, Katara unrolls a scroll against her pulled up knees. She's made a cozy little niche between a beam and a feed barrel; anybody who glances through the cargo will miss her completely. To find her, they'd have to know enough to look. </p><p>Audibly, she reads: <i>"The chill of bamboo invades my room. Moonlight from the fields fills the corners of the court, dew gathers till it falls in drops. A scattering of stars, now there, now gone. A firefly threading the darkness makes his own light, birds at rest on the water call to each other. All these lie within the shadow of the sword — Powerless I grieve as the clear night passes.</i>"</p><p>The words touch the air like the scent of cake or the feelgood echo of a familiar song in an unfamiliar street. <i>Here are fine things</i>, claims the ear, and never mind that you can't see them.</p><p>Katara nevers sings at Music Night, she doesn't play anything, and she can't even keep rhythm clapping against her knees, but nobody can hear the girl talk like she does and be cheap with compliments.</p><p>"Well," Menshi says. After a moment, he tries again. "Well, that's - that's something, isn't it. Don't remember learning much of that back in school. Prettiest thing we got was watching Madame Kata's chin wobble during the oath."</p><p>Katara giggles. It's sweeter than the poetry even. "I bet you were a schoolroom terror."</p><p>"And I bet you were the cinder-apple of the teacher's eye," Menshi says.</p><p>"I didn't go to school," she says matter-of-factly. "But most of the tutors said nice things. Or at least, they said them to Master Iroh. They were pretty well paid, though."</p><p>"He's a hard one to lie to," Menshi says. The glow of serving under the Dragon of the West is hard to shake off. "I bet most of them didn't think you were too awful."</p><p>"Not like my current audience," she says. A rough snout pushes through the bars and Katara flips a broken crisp-cake towards the waiting maw. The komodo rhino snaps its - <i>her</i>, the murder-eyed ones are always female - black teeth at the food. There's an answering stirring among the other beasts.</p><p>"You'll cause a stampede," Menshi says.</p><p>"There's enough for everyone," Katara says, reaching for the lidded bowl by her ankles. "I don't play favorites."</p><p>And if <i>that</i> ain't the biggest lie to fall out of her mouth. </p><p>"It's been nice seeing you at galley supper recently," Menshi says carefully. "A bit of civilizing influence and all. But - "</p><p>"I told you, I don't care if someone wants to sing the song about the monk staff - "</p><p>Menshi hurries on before they revisit <i>that</i> disaster again. "But it can't be fun sitting around with grimy sailors at odd hours. General Iroh must miss your company."</p><p>"Master Iroh sees me plenty," Katara says curtly. "He can find me anytime he wants to. <i>I'm</i> not avoiding anyone." She fists a bunch of crisp-cakes and tosses them through the bars. They pelt the rough faces harmlessly but there's an angry shuffle at the treatment. Katara's face immediately creases in apology. She gets up and carries over the rest, passing it through the bars with motherly politeness.</p><p>Watching her dole out treats to the iron-jawed monsters, it's easy to forget that there's a temper underneath the niceness. Some of the crew have a silent wager on whether there's Fire in the girl, although none discuss it. For his own part, Menshi thinks she's Water through and through. Thing is water can turn more vicious than a blaze when it's got a reason to. Sailors may burn at sea but they still drown more often.</p><p>"Your cut's looking better," Menshi says.</p><p>Katara's hand half-rises to her forehead then guiltily jerks down. After three days of healing the scrape is barely visible. But, <i>aii</i>, what a three days these have been.</p><p>"It wasn't much to begin with," Katara says. "Barely anything."</p><p>"Shallow ones always look worse than they are," Menshi agrees. "Wait till you get your nose broken, that'll make a show worth watching. Though, eh, maybe don't do that too soon?"</p><p>She gives him a thoughtful look at that. In the sleepy light of the hold, the friendly corners of her eyes and mouth are edged. Her face seems full of hollows and wobbles and surprises waiting to ripen and terrify everyone around her. </p><p>A pretty girl – what creature is more dangerous?</p><p>She passes another cake through the bars and, unthinkingly, rubs the edge of her hand against the komodo rhino's muzzle. There's a trick to doing it if you don't want your thumb sliced off by the horns. </p><p>The trick being, Menshi thinks, not sticking your hand into the komodo rhino cage.</p><p>But if there's one thing serving in the Fire Nation army teaches, it's that the rules aren't the same for everybody. It's what lets half-grown boys command ships, for one thing. And possibly it's what allows for a trained war-beast to press its killer horn against a girl's palm like a nuzzling kitten. A low, guttural sound like the groan of a stuttering engine seeps through the room. It takes Menshi a moment to realize what it actually is.</p><p>Thirty years, he thinks. Thirty years sharing ship space with the miserable brutes. He's seen them stomp commanders and snap locks in one bite and eat coal like it was tea cakes. Thirty years and he's never heard one <i><b>purr</b></i>. He'd never even imagined it.</p><p>Maybe there's something to the poetry after all.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div><i>"Nobody questioned her presence, a foreign child - no rank, no family."</i><p>
  <i>"Wasn't our place to ask. She came along with the General and the Prince. Truth be told, sir, none of us had much interaction with her."</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"None?"</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"None worth mentioning. Sir. She kept out of everyone's way."</i>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>"The important thing," Tai Yi says, "is knowing when to let go."<p>His audience nods attentively, blue eyes big as plums.</p><p>Mindful of the attention, and more than a little flattered by it, Tai Yi puts his hands into the wide bowl and captures a small clod of dough between his palms. His curls his fingers - loosely, lovingly - over the sticky bounty and wills his palms to warm. It takes only a moment for the starchy, excellent scent of toasted rice to seep out. </p><p>"It's best not to hold on too tightly," Tai Yi tells Katara. "Hold on too hard and you spoil everything. Loose hold, smart hands, that's how good things come into the world."</p><p>He opens his hands, revealing the perfect accomplishment: a soft rice cake, toasted and perfect. It's a modest treat especially when the ship stores have been replenished with richer bounty. Katara, however, takes the offered snack with manners befitting royalty.</p><p>She holds up the cake to her face and inhales. "It's wonderful."</p><p>She glances up and he nods at her - <i>go on, go on</i> - until she takes the first bite. The ensuing expression on the dear little face is worth her weight in saffron. Or perhaps not <i>her</i> weight; Katara's shoulders could use some padding. </p><p>Still, the whole of her is better than the first time he saw her. The <i>very</i> first time.</p><p>When Tai Yi thinks of his place in the world, he thinks of the food he makes. People are chopsticks and plates. The girl now sitting in his kitchen, she is crisp half-moons of pickled radish, stews of bony little fish, cod cheeks, twice-cooked pork and rice speckled with black pepper. Her favorite dish is “kidney flowers'', the gamey meat delicately cut and flash-fried into curls.  She likes duck necks, pork knuckles, tongues. No amount of vinegar dismays her. She has a sailor's stomach, a pragmatist's appetite, and manners like gold.</p><p>It is only when Tai Yi catches the telltale sweet reek of the medicine that he recalls the untouched plates from <i>before</i>. Soup gone cold as sand. Ribs anointed with only tentative bite marks. Dumplings rolled from one edge of the plate to the other like refugees, ultimately abandoned.</p><p>He remembers General Iroh’s pleas for creativity, for temptation. For <i>anything</i> a child would like. Tai Yi had grander stores then, even after weeks in the Southern waters, and he’d done his best to breach the tiny invalid’s reluctance. The sour-cheeked doctor had given him a list of ingredients to “warm” the silent patient. Occasionally Tai Yi dreams of that list taunting him. Sweet basil, rosemary, ginseng, fresh garlic, ginger. Parsnips and cabbage. Chicken, eel, ham. Broths enriched by cubes of hard, salty ham. Green onions. Papayas – oh, the papayas. He’d been nearly mad with trying to find new ways to persuade her by then. And still she – <b>would – not – eat</b>. </p><p>When the body turns away from food, what can be said of the soul inside it?</p><p>To see that same child perched on a stool in his kitchen, tugging at stretchy rice cake with her teeth, hale and healthy…Tai Yi isn’t a poet, he hasn’t the words.</p><p>Well, maybe two.</p><p>“Have another,” he says.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div>"Tell me about the end. The last time she was on the ship."<p>"..."</p><p>"I won't repeat myself, soldier."</p><p>"...right. Sir. I'm not just thinking of how to say it so you'd understand what it was like, in the end."</p><p>"Speak plainly, soldier. You're bordering on insubordination."</p><p>"Sorry, sir. Didn't mean to, sir. Guess I'm out of practicing being questioned so officially, sir. It's only that....you've got a fine port here. Huge, impressive. Those ships out there I figure it'd take nothing less than a miracle to sink one of them. Not much to fear when you're on the ship like that, at least nothing aside from what we've all been trained for. But, and I don't mean no disrespect, I don't, sir, but the thing is it's different when you're bobbing out in the salt on a ship older than your great-grandmother's knees. Worse still when you're not even sure why you're out there. Taking orders from a fellow barely old enough to pis – spit overboard doesn't help much. And then when things go bad one night, when the sea turns ugly and it goes really, truly bad, you find yourself on deck and feeling small. When that happens you tend to remember three things afterward; how grateful you are that it's over, how badly you tried not to piss yourself while it was happening, and who was standing next to you."</p><p>"Soldier, you were asked about the girl."</p><p>"And I'm telling you about her. Everything you've been asking is because you want me to say that she wasn't one of the crew and you're right, she wasn't. She was fourteen and had no reason to be out there that night. Or any of the days before. I respect General Iroh more than I do almost any man alive but it's what we all thought; she wasn't supposed to be there. Not for any of it but certainly not that awful night. Fourteen years old. I was there, I saw the state of her. Half of her made up of sea water she was so drenched, and even then there wasn't enough of her altogether to outweigh a ham. It doesn't matter, though, because she still stood there with the rest of us. She tried to help."</p><p>"She was a non-Bender. A child, like you said. How could she help?" </p><p>"However she could. That was her way. She tried to help anyone who she thought needed it. She had her reasons like we have our orders, she stuck by them. We honored her for that. Then and - afterward. After the storm."</p><p>"You offered funeral rites?"</p><p>"Some of us tried to. Prince took an issue with it."</p><p>"Because he believes she's still alive?"</p><p>"He's a stubborn young man. Headstrong. Immovable. Your commander is getting a firsthand taste of that now, I'm guessing."</p><p>"Watch your tone, soldier."</p><p>"Sir."</p><p>"Answer the question asked; does Prince Zuko think she's alive?"</p><p>"He knows she's gone, sir. We all do."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>1)	This was originally meant to serve as a "filler" between posting chapters. Instead here we are...two months later. Remember, kids, time is an illusion. And so are posting schedules.</p><p>2)	Garlands of gratitude go to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/RideBoldlyRide">RideBoldlyRide</a> for beta reading and to <a href="https://bhatoora.tumblr.com/">bhatoora</a> for the final proofread.</p><p>3)	If you still haven't checked out <a href="https://jdteahour.tumblr.com/">Jasmine Dragon Tea Hour</a> and their mind-melting recordings of Tempest in a Teacup (now featuring Zhao!), then I'm sorry, but we're never gonna dance again. Seriously. Go listen and marvel, and gift those ladies with many delicious ponies.</p><p>4)	This fic now has its own <a href="https://thetempestcup.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a>! I plan to post things there? Story relevant things? Probably? (Admitedly, I already managed to delete both it and my personal tumblr while setting up the former. Adjust your expectations accordingly.)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>